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Well, it had to happen eventually. We'd all crossed paths so many times that it was inevitable. I went out to my garage to find a car blocking it, at a time when I needed to be somewhere.
(Why is it always MY garage? There are four other bays on the apron. Can't you inconvenience one of the other tenants?)
It was a decrepit Mercury, not the equally decrepit Tercel that I keep shooing out of that spot. Three bald tires and the fifty-mile donut supported a sagging frame on which was bolted a set of crumpled fenders, a pair of bumpers that almost touched the ground, and a single intact headlight. A black plastic trash bag was taped where the rear passenger window should be. If a car could be on meth, it was this car.
I called the property management company to report that Detroit had apparently taken a dump in front of my garage again, but no one answered the phone. (We're supposed to report these things to management so they can determine if there's a pattern. I left a message.) That meant that it was time to call the Magic Number. I waved my magic smartphone and cast "Accio Towtruck!"
No sooner had I finished than the owner of the car came bumbling out of a nearby apartment, clutching an empty casserole dish and talking on a cell phone. She was fifty years old or so, wearing a tube-top and culottes, and she looked ready for a fight. "Yeah, there's a guy out here staring at my car..." She took me in, and noticed that large, angry renter was blocked in. And angry. And large. "...So I guess I gotta move it, hang on..." Pasting on the most conciliatory smile she could muster, she said that she had no choice but to park on the apron because her emergency brakes weren't working and the hill on Pierson Street is too steep.
I dug into my pneumothorax for my deepest, coldest voice: "Is this piece of shit yours?" (I sing baritone.)
She assented, and got in, and took her sweet precious time getting everything tidied and sorted and making sure her belt was adjusted perfectly and all her mirrors were at just the right angle and everything else was perfect before moving her car the twelve feet required to get it out of my way. Nothing about her screamed "I'll just park this somewhere else." It all said, "I'll just wait for this asshole to leave and then put the car right back." She did not park her car nor get out of it, just sat there waiting for me to extract my own car.
I backed my shiny silver Nissan out onto the apron, closed and locked the door, and drove off down the road, wondering if I should call off the tow truck. Kind of a wasted trip for them, now. However, to get where I intended to go, one had to circle around the block back to the top of Pierson Lane, so I did, and just out of curiosity, I peered down the road - just in time to see the lady, having parked her Dumpster behind my garage again, marching briskly across the street back to the apartment from whence she came.
I headed off to my destination and thought no more about it. But my mood had improved considerably for some reason.
(Why is it always MY garage? There are four other bays on the apron. Can't you inconvenience one of the other tenants?)
It was a decrepit Mercury, not the equally decrepit Tercel that I keep shooing out of that spot. Three bald tires and the fifty-mile donut supported a sagging frame on which was bolted a set of crumpled fenders, a pair of bumpers that almost touched the ground, and a single intact headlight. A black plastic trash bag was taped where the rear passenger window should be. If a car could be on meth, it was this car.
I called the property management company to report that Detroit had apparently taken a dump in front of my garage again, but no one answered the phone. (We're supposed to report these things to management so they can determine if there's a pattern. I left a message.) That meant that it was time to call the Magic Number. I waved my magic smartphone and cast "Accio Towtruck!"
No sooner had I finished than the owner of the car came bumbling out of a nearby apartment, clutching an empty casserole dish and talking on a cell phone. She was fifty years old or so, wearing a tube-top and culottes, and she looked ready for a fight. "Yeah, there's a guy out here staring at my car..." She took me in, and noticed that large, angry renter was blocked in. And angry. And large. "...So I guess I gotta move it, hang on..." Pasting on the most conciliatory smile she could muster, she said that she had no choice but to park on the apron because her emergency brakes weren't working and the hill on Pierson Street is too steep.
I dug into my pneumothorax for my deepest, coldest voice: "Is this piece of shit yours?" (I sing baritone.)
She assented, and got in, and took her sweet precious time getting everything tidied and sorted and making sure her belt was adjusted perfectly and all her mirrors were at just the right angle and everything else was perfect before moving her car the twelve feet required to get it out of my way. Nothing about her screamed "I'll just park this somewhere else." It all said, "I'll just wait for this asshole to leave and then put the car right back." She did not park her car nor get out of it, just sat there waiting for me to extract my own car.
I backed my shiny silver Nissan out onto the apron, closed and locked the door, and drove off down the road, wondering if I should call off the tow truck. Kind of a wasted trip for them, now. However, to get where I intended to go, one had to circle around the block back to the top of Pierson Lane, so I did, and just out of curiosity, I peered down the road - just in time to see the lady, having parked her Dumpster behind my garage again, marching briskly across the street back to the apartment from whence she came.
I headed off to my destination and thought no more about it. But my mood had improved considerably for some reason.
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